


malakh

by nicehcuse, stellarmads



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M, angel!stan au, richie is schizophrenic, this is written by two schizophrenic individuals so no ableism, tw homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 10:23:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12792561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicehcuse/pseuds/nicehcuse, https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellarmads/pseuds/stellarmads
Summary: And war broke out in heaven: Michael and his angels fought with the dragon; and the dragon and his angels fought, but they did not prevail, nor was a place found for them in heaven any longer. So the great dragon was cast out, that serpent of old, called the Devil and Satan, who deceives the whole world; he was cast to the earth, and his angels were cast out with him.





	malakh

**Author's Note:**

> two witches wrote an angel au with full ass religion. AN: that being said, we're not removing stans judaism! we're going off of old testament sorry if it's confusing) it's okay though, we both were raised super religious and we're pulling out all the stops for this. it's super exciting to be writing with my best friend, and i'm pretty sure they feel the same. everyone go check out stan's works too, they're very talented. 
> 
> as a side note: in later chapters, we will flesh out to include richie's schizophrenia. both of us are schizophrenic, and we will not tolerate any ableist comments. we also won't be using it for shock value, so if you're here because for crywank material, please leave.

Richie stumbled around for his ride to the party, (Peggy Davis from third period) a red solo cup with cheap vodka, dripping down the side of the cup, collecting at his knuckles, clutched in his hand. When he steps outside and cold bites at his already chapped and peeling lips, he doesn’t find her car, and hisses, taking one last drink and pouring the rest into the bushes before dragging his feet down the pavement with his thumb bent out trying to get a ride.

The truck that finally pulls over sounds like it has a rabid cat in the engine. It rattles, so much so it sounds like it’s going to fall apart any second, before lurching to a stop. The figure in the driver’s seat leans over, rolling down the window. Through a swimming vision, Richie sees an older man, smiling widely, baseball cap turned backwards. 

“Need a ride home, doll?” Richie wipes at his eyes and finds how suddenly very complicated it is to do so without accidentally pushing off his glasses.

“Uh… yeah. Sure.”

The guy swings his door open, the smell of Camels and sweat hitting Richie full force. It’s bad enough for him to gag a little, despite his drunkenness. Some part of Richie, sober Richie, screams at him. Something in the guy’s smile, the way he’s looking Richie up and down, eyes raking over him. It’s wrong. 

But then Richie thinks about how warm his bed must be, how comfortable he’ll be snuggled into his sheets and pillows, and that thought, fueled by the vodka pumping through his bloodstream, is enough to drive him forwards, stepping towards the wheezing pickup. 

Just as his boots make contact with the off center and stained floor mats, the low hum of a motor and a voice shouting, “Excuse me!” pulls him out. Through his blurry vision and smudged glasses, he can make out an all white car and a small taxi sign on the hood. 

It occurs to him, fleetingly in his addled mind, that he’s never seen a white taxi before. Derry has it’s fair share of late night cabs, now that he thinks about it, but it’s a little like seeing a zebra, or a unicorn. Or something like that. 

The thought dissolves, as he’s now focused on the pickup, which suddenly takes off, leaving him in a cloud of exhaust smoke. While swatting the smoke out of the air in front of him, he realizes his options have narrowed down to the strange cab in front of him, and he’s left with no other choice than to stagger over to the now lowered window.

“I, uh, don’t usually do this but it’s late and you don’t look too stable, so do you need a ride? It’s free, on the… erm, car?” 

Richie snickers, taking a minute to find the handle which seems to blend in with the rest of the car. Definitely not the best for someone who already has garbage eyesight. Actually hooking his fingers around the groove proves to be even more difficult, and he fumbles for a second, before the door suddenly swings out and him in the stomach. He stumbles backwards, barely regaining his footing, before glancing up at the driver. 

At first he notices the awkward, cautionary look on his face. He then notices golden, honey curls and the one hazel eye he can see illuminated by the lights inside the car. He quickly comes to the conclusion that he really doesn’t care if this person almost just pushed him down with a car door. It occurs to him that he’s been staring for a period of time, and he suddenly feels an awkward weight settle over him. Before he can lose his free ride by being weird, he steps into the car, then noticing the pristine, cream interior. He makes sure his boots only touch the mat, because even wasted he knows he’s not exactly clean.

“It’s… S’nice car.” He clears his throat a little. The driver’s eyes glide over to Richie, who apparently can’t look at things with just his eyes, and has to move his entire head to check out the car. He lets out a shaky breath and his fingers drum the steering wheel.

“Yeah, it’s a… um… it’s a car.” It doesn’t register in Richie’s head that the man with the weird taxi also happens to know nothing about his weird taxi. Really, you could have told him that Nixon was still president, and he would have hummed in agreement. Looking back in the morning, he’s sure he’ll regret downing whatever mixed drink was pushed into his hand. 

When the driver starts another sentence with, “So…”, Richie’s head whips in his direction, or at least as much as he can with drunken, slow movements. “Had too much to drink?” Richie gives him a half shrug.

“Well I mean, I don’t… I don’t know, are you pretty?” The man’s grip on the steering wheel tightens and Richie is less aware than he was before that he’s _definitely_ staring.

“What?”

“Oh… I thought we were, you know… Stating the obvious. Or something like that.”

“Something like that.” 

Silence fills the cab, and Richie absent-mindedly flakes away the black polish on his nails. It scatters over the faux leather seat. 

“Do you got any tunes? Or somethin’?” He watches the man next to him nod, before moving to turn on the radio, jamming aggressively at the buttons below the display. Not that he meant to, but gravity seemed to be working thrice as hard. With minor static, Richie can hear some kind of country music, and did they just mention God? Richie fake gags, though it seemed real enough for the driver.

“Why is it all gospel? Where’s the uh… good shit?” 

He looks over and sees a blur of curls while the man shakes his head.

“Just… find some rock gospel or something. Tune out the words, if it really bothers you.” 

Richie turns his attention back to the center console, skipping through another country, pop, and even choir, to which he remarks, “Just as cultish as church,” before settling for Skillet. He huffs and leans back in his seat, and whether tuning out the words was his own choice or the alcohol’s, he didn’t know but also didn’t care. His own loose curls hang in his face while he picks at the already frayed hem of his jacket, before the car comes to a stop. 

He looks up, blinking to adjust his eyes to the dark and finding his house in front of him. He lets out a small, “Oh,” turning to open the door before a voice cuts him off.

“Seatbelt.” Richie looks down and finds he is, indeed, still wearing his seatbelt. His hands trace down the length of the strap before finding the clasp and undoing it, trying again to then exit the car.

“Hey, uh… thanks. For the ride. The free one. Thanks…” He hesitates, realizing he doesn’t know the driver’s name. The man himself actually fumbles, mouth opening and closing before coming up with, “Stanley.” Richie nods, repeating it to himself as if he’ll actually remember that in the morning.

“Have a safe night, Richie.” He rolls up the window, and Richie responds with a sluggish thumbs up before wobbling up to his door, which he finds conveniently unlocked. It’s not like the Toziers’ have much to steal, anyways. Once in his room, successfully avoiding the closed door opposing his, he sheds himself of his jacket and glasses, pulling at his shoelaces before giving up and leaving his boots on. His upper half sways before collapsing on his mattress.

As he drifts off, mind fuzzy, he’s suddenly overcome by the thought that he never told the strange, attractive taxi driver his name, address, or that he liked rock music.

“Stanley,” He murmurs to himself, before succumbing to sleep. Perhaps he did, and just forgot.


End file.
